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Quatre chansons pour enfants, FP75

Introduction

Poulenc’s flamboyant uncle ‘Papoum’ (Marcel Royer) was a lover of the music hall and he instilled a similar affection in his nephew from an early age. Poulenc came from an extremely well-to-do Parisian home (unlike Debussy, from the suburbs, or those southerners Fauré, Chabrier, Ravel and Milhaud). From the very beginning the refinements that money could buy were enjoyed side-by-side with the earthier manifestations of Parisian popular culture. These four songs were written to the texts of a popular poet Jean Nohain, otherwise known as Jaboune—both pseudonyms for Jean-Marie Legrand (1900–1981). He later became known as the writer of texts for the popular chansonnière Mireille. The musical language is simple, and the texts irreproachably suitable for young people either to sing or listen to. In the real music hall of the time songs of this kind, with their zany melodies and verbal patter, would have been far more suggestive than these innocent little sketches. On the concert platform today the first song, with its extended Christmas lists, is the most often performed. It is a reminder of the Third Republic’s obsession with encouraging its citizens to have more children, a theme that Poulenc revisited in far more extended fashion in the Apollinaire opéra bouffe Les mamelles de Tirésias.

Recordings

Graham Johnson is simply the greatest living authority on French song; an artist whose innate feeling for the music is combined with prodigious scholarship. Following his many wonderful recordings in Hyperion’s French Song Edition, Johnson turns t ...» More

Madame Eustache has seventeen daughters, which is none too many but quite enough. A fine little family— you must have seen them passing by. On December 20 they are summoned: What, girls, would you like for Christmas? Would you like a powder box? Would you like some little handkerchiefs? A little sewing set? A parrot on his perch? Would you like a little doll’s house? A pen that inks fingers? A fireman that can dive and swim? An almost Chinese flower vase? But the seventeen children replied in chorus: No, no, no, no, no. That’s not what we want, we want a baby sister, round and chubby like a balloon, with a funny little nose, with blonde hair and a heart-shaped mouth. We want a baby sister.

Next winter—there are eighteen, which is none too many but quite enough. Christmas draws near and the girls are truly perplexed. Madame Eustache summons them: Girls, you must decide on your Christmas present— Would you like a woolly sheep? Would you like an alarm clock? A bottle of mouth-wash? Three little satin cushions? Would you like a ballerina’s costume? A little folding chair to be carried under the arm? But the eighteen children replied in chorus: No, no, no, no, no. That’s not what we want, we want a baby sister, round and chubby like a balloon, with a funny little nose, with blonde hair and a heart-shaped mouth. We want a baby sister.

There are nineteen the following year, which is none too many but quite enough. When the heart-warming season returns, Christmas once more approaches. Madame Eustache summons them. Girls, you must decide on your Christmas present: Would you like some unusual toys with batteries and engines? Would you like an electric bear? A steam hippopotamus? Would you like a superb scrap-book for pasting postcards in? Would you like a pedal-car? An aluminium ring? But the nineteen children replied in chorus: No, no, no, no, no. That’s not what we want. We want twin baby sisters, identical twin sisters, two sisters with blonde hair! Their mother said: Very well, but it cannot be done. This year you’ll have nothing at all!

Madame Eustache has seventeen daughters, which is none too many but it is quite enough. What a fine family they make, you must have seen them go by. On December 20th, they are called together: What would you like girls as a Christmas present? Would you like a powder box? Would you like little handkerchiefs? Would you like a small sewing-case? A parrot sitting on its perch? Would you like a doll’s house? A pen which makes your fingers inky? A fireman which can dive and swim? An almost-Chinese flowered vase? But the seventeen children chorused all together: No, no, no, no, no. That isn’t what we want. We want a baby sister with round, fat cheeks like a balloon, with a comical little nose, with golden hair and a heart-shaped mouth. We want a baby sister.

The next winter, there are eighteen of them, which is none too many, but quite enough. Christmas was drawing near and the girls were in a real quandary. Madame Eustache called them together: Make up your minds, girls, for your Christmas present: would you like a woolly-haired sheep? Would you like an alarm-clock? A bottle of alcoholized mouth-wash? Three little satin cushions? Would you like a costume of prima ballerina? A little folding-chair which can be carried under the arm? But the eighteen children chorused all together: No, no, no, no, no. That isn’t what we want. We want a baby sister, with round, fat cheeks like a balloon, with a comical little nose, with golden hair and a heart-shaped mouth. We want a baby sister.

There are nineteen of them the following year, which is not too many but is quite enough. When the heart-warming season returns, Christmas is round the corner again. Madame Eustache calls them together: Make up your minds, girls, for your Christmas present: would you like eccentric toys with batteries and engines? Would you like an electric bear? A steam hippopotamus? Would you like a superb scrap-book in which postcards can be pasted? Would you like a car with pedals? Or an aluminium ring? But the nineteen children chorused all together: No, no, no, no, no. That isn’t what we want. We want two little twin sisters. Two sisters alike as two peas, two sisters with golden hair! Their mother said: very well, but it’s quite out of the question; this year, you will have nothing, nothing at all!

Nous voulons une petite sœur is a patter song of small musical substance, but immense charm. She who can survive the pronunciation hurdles of Madame Eustache’s Christmas list deserves a diction prize and a rest from the demands of importunate children.

Madame Eustache has seventeen daughters, That’s not too many, But it’s just right The pretty little family It must have been, been, been It must have been, been, been You must have seen her going by December comes and she inquires: Dear little girls, for Christmas time, What would you desire? Would you like a powder box? Would you like little handkerchiefs? Or how about little sewing blocks? Or a pretty little parakeet? Would you like a dollhouse? A ball pen that your fingers stains? A man that dives and swims around? A nearly Chinese flower vase? But as one the seventeen children Replied: No!

We would not like any of that A little sister’s what we chose With smiling lips and a little hat With a cute little button nose With golden hair at that A little one for us to tease We would like a little sister please

Next winter comes and there are eighteen That’s not too many, But that will do Christmas is coming and it would seem That they don’t know know know That they don’t know know know That they don’t know what they should do. Their mother calls them and inquires Dear little girls, for Christmas time, What it is that you require? Would you like a curly sheep? Would you like an alarm clock? Pink toothpaste to clean your teeth? Or a brand-new satin clock? Would you like a dress-up kit To have an opera dancer’s charm A little couch ‘pon which you can sit Which folds and fits under your arm But as one the eighteen children Replied: No!

We would not like any of that…

There are nineteen girls the next year, That’s not too much, But it’s enough When the time comes for season’s cheer Christmas is cu, cu cu Christmas is cu, cu cu Once again Christmas is coming up Their mother calls them and inquires Dear little girls, for Christmas time, What is it that you require? Would you like a toy that is eccentric? With batteries and an engine too? A teddy bear that is electric? An animal that steams for you? Would you like a beautiful album That you can put your postcards in? A pretty ring made of aluminum? A pedal car that you can ride in? But as one the nineteen children Replied: No!

For all those things we do not care We would like twin sisters, if we may Two sisters that are just the same Two sisters with pretty golden hair The mother said: I see But there’s no way this will be So this year, you’ll get nothing.

With my lorgnette I can see what’s going on chez Madame Germain in the house opposite. The two younger girls are preparing the meal, mending socks and making daddy’s bed. Emma’s doing the sweeping, Paul’s fetching the milk, but little René, though he’s the eldest, makes the whole household blush: from one end of the year to the other he never stops picking his nose.

All sermons, all speeches with which his parents assail him always seem to fall on deaf ears. In vain does his despairing Mum lecture him, deprive him of supper, strap him, lock him in the lavatory— he never stops picking his nose. That is, from one end of the year to the other, his sad fate. poor little René, in the end they had to cut off his nose.

With my spyglass to my face So much I can see Of Mrs. Germaine’s place The house across from me The two youngest girls busily spin Mend the socks with sewing thread Make dad’s bed with a grin And set out the dinner spread Every day Emma sweeps the floor, Fetching the milk is Paul’s daily chore, And what of René? Though he is the oldest It’s embarrassing to say What he does best From year start till year close, Is stick his fingers in his nose.

The lectures, the speeches All the nightly preaches Plainly appear To fall on deaf ears. His poor worried mother Tries one thing after another No suppers, a chiding, Even a right hiding, She locks him in the closet But in there still he does it, From year start to year close, He sticks his fingers in his nose The sad end of the day, For poor little René, To help him to stop, His nose had to get the chop.

Ah! dear doctor, I am writing to you, which might surprise you a little, it really does not please me always to be in such good health … I am plump … far too much so … my arms … are much too fat. And when people see me, they say: ‘Look at him, it’s frightening: He’s so healthy! So healthy! Come closer and feel him!’ Ah! dear doctor, it’s hell, I truly am at my wits’ end, everyone says to Mother: ‘Bravo, my dear, he’s made of steel …’

René, my older brother, whenever a cold’s going the rounds, is sure to catch it … As for bronchitis, look out! My brother Adrian will get it! But I never catch anything! Even though during the winter I expose myself to draughts, gobble up green fruit—there’s nothing doing … Alas, I know that when you’ve got measles you stay in bed, instead of going to school … Your parents are near you and spoil you, and everyone has such nice things to say … Mummy never stops giving you medicine. Ah! my dear doctor, if you were kind, you’d have pity! I know what you’d do, and all the pills you’d give me! … Being so healthy all the time, it’s too boring … I beg you, doctor, have a heart for once, just for once, make me ill … ill … ill for just an hour!

Dear doctor, this may be unexpected, But I’m writing you, dejected I am finding it quite loathsome Always being healthy and wholesome I am as large…as a brig And my arms…are way too big. People say, when they see me, “Look at him, how can it be? So healthy, oh so healthy, Is it real? Can we feel?”

Dear doctor, I am through, I really don’t know what to do, To my mom, they say, when they see my mass, “Well done, dear, he’s made of brass…”

My brother René, I must say Seems to really have a way A cold comes by, with him it stays And all coughs, They go off To my brother Adrian, always coughing But me? I catch nothing!

In wintertime, I try so hard, To sit in drafts out in the yard And you can always find me chewing Fruit that’s still green – nothing doing!

I know when you get the measles, you’ll Stay in bed, and can skip school Your parents nearby, letting you rule Saying nice things, hugging you too And your mommy, constantly Giving you the medicine that you need

Oh, dear doctor, if only You would take pity on me! I know just what you could do And what pills to send me, too!

To always, always be healthy, Is so annoying, can’t you see? I beg you doctor, just this once Give me a special ordinance, Have a heart, if you will For an hour, make me ill!

When people have pots of money, they are served, so I’m told, by flunkeys, nannies and errand-boys. That’s not the case chez Mr Carefree … He does everything himself in his little home. It’s a fine system: he’s absolutely right! He dusts, he polishes: not a single servant in sight. His floors glisten … How cosy his house is! The little dishes he loves, he cooks them himself and then thanks himself, our Mr Carefree.

In spring he’s so happy … Gardening takes up all his time … Despite his age he sets to work while singing songs of yesteryear … He does everything himself in his little garden, and the flowers he loves he gets for nothing. He digs, he waters, he prunes his roses, and in his cottage there’s lilac everywhere … The chrysanthemums he grows he picks for himself and also for the ladies, our Mr Carefree …

The dear old man is never envious, he’s always content with next to nothing … Nothing tempts him: he is happy … His only wish is to please you … He does everything himself to make people happy … Everybody loves him, he will live a long time … He’s a centenarian, and Saint Peter already, so I’m told, awaits him in heaven … He’ll get in with no trouble, and we’ll see him sitting next to the good Lord Himself, our Mr Carefree.

When someone Has a lot of funds, It’s said that they Often employ: A cook, a maid, and Delivery boy But this just won’t be For dear Mister Carefree. He’s found the perfect way In his little home. None he has to pay: He does it all on his own. He scrubs, he cleans, he plants. No need for servants. His floor really shines. His home is just sublime! If he likes a dish he’s tasted, He’ll go ahead and make it. Then he’ll tell himself “Thank ye.” Dear Mister Carefree.

Springtime comes He has so much fun. Gardening Becomes his thing In spite of his age From him you’ll hear Songs of yesteryear As he works away Alone, the work he does In his garden, you see The flowers that he loves He gets them for free. He plants and weeds and hoses, And trims and prunes his roses. In his sitting room Lilacs are in bloom. Chrysanthemums a-plenty For him should he want any, And for the ladies too, you see? Dear Mister Carefree.

This dear old sir Envies no one ever. He is content With what he has, Impossible to tempt, He’s always glad. He wants only To make you happy. He does it all himself To make our days a song. We all wish him good health. May his life be long! He’s lived a hundred years. Already Saint Peter, So they say, awaits At the pearly gates. His admission will be easy And by the Lord’s side we’ll see Him sitting happily, Dear Mister Carefree.